


Ruby, My Dear

by icaruswontmelt



Category: Minecraft (Video Blogging RPF), Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dream Smp, Friendship, Gen, Ghostbur, Running Away, bros running away to live in the woods because society is hell pog, karl-quackity-sapnap is canon to my knowledge so it does exist in the background here, the sapnap content isn't until the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:00:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28581639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icaruswontmelt/pseuds/icaruswontmelt
Summary: Wilbur is in the garden.Well, not really. He's only half in the garden, laying on the ground and staring up at the clouds. His legs hang over the edge of the pond. His heels hit the surface of the water as he idly kicks the breeze. There is no intent, no motivation in the soul melted into his lawn. It's not really Wilbur. So really Wilbur isn't in the garden at all.But the sheep is, and it's eating his flowers._____George leaves the lands of the SMP. He doesn't go alone.
Relationships: GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 23
Kudos: 101





	Ruby, My Dear

Wilbur is in the garden.

Well, not really. He's only half in the garden, laying on the ground and staring up at the clouds. His legs hang over the edge of the pond. His heels hit the surface of the water as he idly kicks the breeze. There is no intent, no motivation in the soul melted into his lawn. It's not really Wilbur. So really Wilbur isn't in the garden at all.

But the sheep is, and it's eating his flowers.

"Ghostbur, can you get Friend to stop eating the poppies?"

The ghost takes his time lifting himself up enough to look at George. He rests his weight against his hands and leans back into the sunlight. George's foot taps against the bridge. The dead have no reason to rush, but George and his currently-being-eaten flowers do.

"Ghostbur, please get Friend to stop eating my poppies,"

Ghostbur blinks, then turns to his sheep.

"Sorry! Friend, over here," Ghostbur waves, and the sheep lifts it's head, "Those flowers aren't a snack for you!"

The sheep trots over and flops onto the ground at it's owner's side. A petal is stuck to its chin. George sighs and crosses the bridge. It's been too long of a day for him to deal with ghosts and livestock loitering on his property. It's not even sunset. He only half shuts the door behind him, and the breeze has just enough energy to make the picture pinned to his wall flutter against the planks. He organizes his chests and reorganizes them for good measure. He cleans and scrubs until his fingers hurt. There's nothing to do, no one to talk to. He doesn't look at the photo on the wall.

The sun still hasn't set. The ghost is still in his yard.

George stands in the doorway and stares at the spirit. It's rude, but nobody is around so who cares. Ghostbur looks utterly relaxed, like there's nowhere he'd rather be than in the grass with his sheep pressed to his side and his feet making tiny splashes in the pond. He looks at peace. George can't remember Wilbur ever looking like that. Although, they hadn't interacted much so what would he know. George had heard plenty about him though. Tommy's brother, a musician living in the remains of the Antarctic Empire. He didn't build like his father, he didn't kill like his twin, he didn't start petty squabbles like his little brother. There'd been stories, though. Tales of crime and chaos and destruction, but their veracity had been numbed by distance and rumor and the speck of doubt one gives whenever a little brother brags about their elder at a campfire. To the residents of the SMP, Wilbur had been as cold and distant as the snowy lands he hailed from.

"Are you going to be there all day?" George calls. 

"I think so." Ghostbur says back. He doesn't look away from the clouds, "Do you want me to leave?"

Want is a strong word.

George waves a hand, "It's fine. I was just wondering,"

Ghostbur sits up again and looks back at George. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, his head tilted in curiosity. There is no cut to his gaze. George can't help but note the absence.

"Would you like to join me?"

George shrugs. Ghostbur smiles and pats the ground next to him. George goes.

The grass is prickly beneath his palms and between his fingers, he's never liked the feeling. Ghostbur lays down again and gestures for George to do the same. Reluctantly, he does. The grass makes the back of his neck itch. At least the clouds are nice.

"Your house is pretty,"

"Thanks,"

"You're welcome,"

Ghostbur seems comfortable in the silence. George isn't.

"I heard you made the lanterns around L'Manberg?"

"I did! Phil and I used to make them all the time,"

"They look nice,"

"Thank you,"

George doesn't say that they might all be gone soon. He doesn't ask if Ghostbur knows about Tommy and Tubbo, about Technoblade and Dream, about the community house. There wouldn't be much point to it. Instead, he asks Ghostbur to teach him how to make them. By nightfall, the sky around the mushroom house is littered with red and white and yellow lights. Friend has eaten half the poppies in the yard. George finds he doesn't mind.

_

"Your entire family is here and you want to spend your time with me?"

"They're busy, Friend and I kept getting in the way." Ghostbur says, "I think they're all going to fight again,"

George debates whether or not to bring a brewing stand, "Yeah, they are,"

"But you aren't?"

George leaves the brewing stand. He can always make another if he needs one, "No,"

"Oh,"

Friend bleats. Ghostbur pats their head and feeds them more poppies. George checks his chests one last time for anything he might've missed, anything else he needs. He doesn't look at the photo as he stuffs it in his pocket. He lets Ghostbur and Friend go out first and closes the door behind them. The gray dawn seems gloomy, and George tries not to think of it as an omen.

"Where will you go?"

"Not sure,"

"Will we come back?"

George stops on the bridge.

"We?" He repeats.

"You, me, and Friend!"

George shakes his head and keeps walking, "You two can do what you want. Go where you want. I don't know about me,"

"Where do you want to go?"

Want is a strong word.

George shrugs, "North, maybe. Or west. What's a good direction, Ghostbur?"

"Oh that's a tough question. They all go interesting places,"

"Well, what kind of environment do you like? Hot, cold, dry, wet, what do you prefer?"

"Somewhere it doesn't rain much would be nice,"

"You don't like rain?"

"It melts me. I don't think I'd like being a puddle,"

"Oh,"

George decides to not walk towards the wooden path. He doesn't really care where they go, so long as it's away from everything else. They probably shouldn't go North, word is that Techno is up there. And with the current alliances, Dream is sure to be where Techno is. Definitely not North. 

They do end up travelling west. There are no rivers, so they walk the entire day. When the moon is high in the sky and George's feet hurt too much to justify continuing they stop. Ghostbur hums something pretty by the fire. Friend lets George use them as a pillow. In the instant before sleep, George thinks they need to live somewhere with plenty of poppies.

_

The next day they find a forest with stuffed with enormous dark oak trees. The sunlight barely filters through the thick canopy. George wonders if much rain would get through. By sunset they're still in the forest, and when George climbs a tree the forest extends to the horizon. Red mushrooms dot the few spaces between trees, and towering brown mushrooms stretch above the branches. George thinks it might be time to build Mushroom House 2.0. 

_

It takes hours for George to find a spot with enough space to even build a campsite and hours more for him to clear enough trees to build a house. They find a half-covered pond nearby. Ghostbur clears away the soil and starts planting wheat and potatoes.

"Techno used to plant potatoes all the time,"

George holds back a wince at the name, "Really?"

"Yeah. He had this competition with a guy over who could farm the most potatoes. It went on for a whole year, we didn't see him much then. He was always running off to farm more potatoes,"

"Did he win?"

"Of course he did! Techno is very smart. He beat Squid by a lot. Squid was smart too, he came close but Techno..." Ghostbur trails off with a smile, "Techno is Techno. Once he sets his mind on something he can't be stopped. If he decides he wants heaven, then the gods better open the gates before he tears them down,"

George thinks of a mad grin and a crater next to dissolving wither corpses. He doesn't doubt Ghostbur.

"But he's nice. Everyone thinks he hates everyone, but he doesn't. He just gets lonely sometimes. It gets noisy in his head,"

"It's a little hard to imagine the Blood God being nice,"

"Oh no, he's very sweet. When we were younger he spent ages trying to teach me how to fight. I was so shit, but he never gave up on me. And when we got into fights he always had my back,"

"I thought you didn't remember sad things, why do you remember fights?"

"Because I was fighting with my brother, us against the world. I'm always happy when we're together. Even if we end up fighting most of the time." Ghostbur smiles softly, "I can't remember much of it, but I remember Tommy was in a ravine. He was being annoying, and he got himself stuck in this hole. Techno and I laughed and laughed. When it was over, Tommy laughed too,"

"Sounds nice,"

"It was nice." Ghostbur's shoulders droop, "We spend less time together now, but I'm sure it'll be fine later. We'll all laugh about it later,"

George cuts down another tree. The photo feels heavy in his pocket. He hasn't looked at it in a long time. He'll pin it up later.

"I don't remember you much from...before. Did you and Alivebur talk much?"

"Not really. We fought a lot,"

"Right, you were against L'Manberg,"

"I wasn't really against L'Manberg. Not personally. To be honest I didn't care that much,"

Ghostbur tilts his head, "Then why did you fight?"

"Dream asked me to,"

"I see. That really proves the difference between your side and Alivebur's, doesn't it?"

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't have much reason to fight. But everyone fighting for L'Manberg really cared. We - They loved their home. They loved what L'Manberg could become. And they fought so that it could become it. They were tending a garden in the corner of the world full of flowers and tangled vines and figs, and Dream wanted to tear it up. Leave his lawn blank with nothing but grass cut to whatever length society deemed appropriate. His SMP was all curb appeal and white canvases. But building L'Manberg? Fighting for it? That was painting,"

George doesn't remember much of the day Wilbur arrived at the SMP. But he remembers Tommy buzzing with excitement for days before and Sapnap running around for days afterward with a sword in his hand and laughter in his throat. Wilbur hadn't been the snowed-in musician they'd expected, he was a forest fire. He burned through every barrier and brought harsh light to each unspoken law. Wilbur made every war that Tommy started look like child's play. No insult went unanswered and no spark of conflict went unfed until the fires consumed all of them.

George does remember Wilbur on the battlefield. The booming voice above the explosions, the tall figure behind the smoke. The challenge in his voice and the glint in his eye when he told Dream he'd rather die than surrender. He remembers wishing he could've seen Wilbur's face in the final control room. He remembers seeing Wilbur fall to his knees and hold his waterlogged brother close to his chest after the duel. He remembers hearing shouts and laughter from the top of the camarvan after all the dust had settled and being unable to hold back a smile of his own.

George doesn't get why people have such a hard time telling Wilbur and Ghostbur apart. If Wilbur was fire, Ghostbur is smoke.

"George?"

"Hmm?"

"When you ran with Big Q, did you do it because he asked you to or because you wanted to?"

Want is a strong word.

"What kind of house do you think we should make, Ghostbur?"

Ghostbur's brow furrows at the change in topic, but he doesn't push.

"We?"

"Yeah, we. It's your home too, you should get a say in it,"

_

They'd planned to make a house, but it became more of a compound. George gets to work on making the main huts for storage and sleep. Ghostbur is happy making them a wall of stones and red mushroom.

The most George ever talked to Wilbur was at the debate, and that wasn't exactly much of a conversation. Everything he'd heard and seen and guessed about Wilbur came at him in full force. He danced and twisted words, didn't flinch in the face of opposition, and never backed down from a point if he really believed in it. And Wilbur never stepped up to the podium if he didn't believe in what he was saying. It was so long ago that George doesn't remember much of the actual debate, although he does distantly remember Wilbur telling him to "shut the fuck up" with a taunt curling his lip and a burning cut to his gaze. George has never been much for words and debates. Wilbur was born for them.

George had heard Wilbur usually left the building to his followers, but Ghostbur seems to take pride in his work. George gets it. Building is good. Creating is good. His brain goes to the logs and planks in his hands instead of to swords and TNT on a far off wooden path. Friend paws at the gravel in the pond's shallows. Ghostbur hums something slow without a melody. George makes sure to add wide overhangs and coverings connecting the huts that aren't covered by the trees. Puddles can't hum very well.

_

"You don't seem like you're going back," Ghostbur says one night.

Ghostbur is standing in the door of George's hut and the rain is coming down in sheets. Ghostbur is still intact, but Friend is soaked. The sheep bleats and lays down at George's feet. He makes a note to mop later.

"That's because I probably won't go back,"

"Why?"

"I don't want to talk about it,"

Ghostbur's fingers pull at the hems of his sleeves. He doesn't move from the doorway.

"You can come in, if you want,"

He doesn't come in. George stands, "Is something wrong?"

"I have to go away for a bit tomorrow." Ghostbur says it in a rush, like he kept the sentence in a breath he's been holding, "Not forever, just. A while. I want to see...I want to see,"

Ghostbur finishes with a resolute nod. He's still messing with his sleeves. The rain keeps falling.

"Do you know how long you'll be gone?" George says slowly. 

Ghostbur shakes his head. George sighs and clenches his fists to keep his hands from shaking. The world keeps turning. He doesn't look at the photo pinned to the wall.

"Okay,"

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, Ghostbur. I said you could go wherever you want. I'm not your keeper,"

Ghostbur steps inside, "You won't get lonely?"

"You're not my keeper, either," George says through clenched teeth.

The ghost perks up and reaches into his pocket, "You're stressed. Have some blue, calm yourself,"

"I don't want it," George steps back from Ghostbur's outstretched palm.

"Take it, it'll take away the sadness,"

"I don't want it,"

"But...but why?"

"Don't worry about it, Ghostbur." George sits back down on the edge of his bed, "Rain won't last forever, you should go pack your things,"

"I don't need to pack, I won't be gone for that long,"

"Sure you won't,"

"I am sure. You think I won't be?"

"I know it,"

"But I promise I'll come back,"

"Yeah, come back for a few minutes and vanish, then come back again and vanish, over and over until you stop coming back completely,"

Ghostbur looks confused. 

George rolls his eyes, "It's what you always do. You hung around L'Manberg and left, you stayed with Tommy and left, I'll be the third that makes the pattern,"

"But this is different. Here is different,"

"Why?"

"Because you're here. We made this place here,"

"And you made the new L'Manberg with your friends and you made a home in exile with Tommy. This isn't a unique situation,"

George doesn't look at the photo on the wall.

"You pick people up when they're fun and you watch them run around and when you're tired of the game you leave. You find someone else to play with, someone easier to poke and pull at. Someone new that you can herd and push wherever you like. And maybe other people are fine with being used but I'm not. I'm fucking _tired_ of being left behind when I'm not _useful_ enough anymore, when I'm not _entertaining_ enough anymore. I'm not - I'm not some fucking pet. I'm not a toy for you to play with and throw away. I'm not a sheep, I'm not a country, I'm not a fucking horse skin or house. I'm a person. I'm a fucking person,"

George's head drops into his hands. His breath sounds too loud in the room. The world keeps turning but it's too fast, it's too much. He was thrown off long ago, left behind in cold space.

"George,"

Ghostbur's voice is too close. There's no faint echo or tremble. George lifts his head and Ghostbur is kneeling in front of him. There's a set to his jaw and a cut in his gaze. He looks like Wilbur.

"That's not what I think of you, that's not what I think of anyone. I stopped staying at L'Manberg as much because Tommy was gone and Fundy didn't want me around. Nobody wanted me around for long, or at least they didn't want me as much as Tommy needed me. I only left Tommy to check on the people I love that were still in L'Manberg, and I left him longer when Dream lied to me. I came with you because I wanted to. I stay here because I want to. You aren't used up or useless, and even if you were it wouldn't matter because I like staying with you anyway. I'm only leaving now for a little while because I want to make sure my family is okay. However, all this reassurance is based on the assumption that the majority of what you said was targeted at me. And I think you and I both know that's not true,"

"George, I'm not Dream,"

George never saw Wilbur after the debate. He knew Schlatt won the election, he knew Wilbur was exiled, he knew Techno arrived, and he didn't care to find out about much else. Quackity was vice president, he wasn't needed there anymore. L'Manberg was already destroyed by the time he found out there was a war. George wasn't surprised to hear Wilbur fought another war over his country. Nobody told him that Wilbur was dead. The heartbreak laid bare in Tommy's eyes and the ache hidden behind Techno's made it likely. The way everyone ignored the tear tracks on Phil's face and the blood on his sword made it certain.

George thinks he would've liked to know Wilbur when he was alive. He wonders if Wilbur would've liked to live baking bread and potatoes in the forest with a sheep and a cast-aside king. He wonders if Wilbur hummed endless songs or laid out on the ground like a starfish on sunny days.

Wilbur's ghost sits at his side in the middle of a rainy night and promises not to leave until the rain stops. Wilbur's ghost places a grave-cold hand on George's back and traces triangles with his thumb. Wilbur's ghost hums something sweet and soft until George's breathing evens out, and doesn't stop until he falls asleep.

_

When George wakes up, his blanket is tucked around him even though he distinctly remembers being on top of it before. Ghostbur is gone, but Friend is there chewing the corner of George's mattress. A promise.

Four days later, Ghostbur comes home with arms full of poppies.

_

Sapnap arrives the next day. George tells him to leave. He doesn't.

Ghostbur gives Sapnap some bread. Sapnap gives him the dozens of dropped poppies he'd left as a trail.

George goes to pick potatoes.

"You didn't leave a note or anything," Sapnap says at the shore.

"I didn't," George confirms.

"You dropped off the fucking map, you didn't tell anyone where you were going or why,"

"Yup,"

"Why?"

"I got tired,"

"Tired of what? Of us?"

"Tired of fighting, tired of being left behind, just. Tired,"

"So you left us behind instead?"

"I didn't leave anyone behind, I didn't have anyone,"

"I thought we had each other," 

George picks potatoes. He doesn't look Sapnap in the eye, "You have your fiancés, Sam, Bad, Skeppy, Puffy, everyone,"

"But I didn't have you?"

George exhales, sits down next to the tilled dirt, "I didn't think you needed me,"

"Of course I do! From the start it's been you, me, and -" He stops himself.

George looks up at him, "Go on, finish the sentence,"

Sapnap gives a half-hearted glare and sits down next to him, "No,"

"Exactly,"

"Exactly what?"

"That's why I left,"

The anger ebbs away as easily as it came. Friend bleats somewhere nearby, but George can't see them.

"I wish you hadn't gone,"

"I'm glad I did. It's peaceful out here,"

"Do you want me to go?"

Want is a strong word. Sometimes it's appropriate.

"I don't want you to stay forever because you have people waiting for you back there. I don't want you to bring hell with you when you visit." George pushes at the gravel beneath his heels, "I want to be friends with you and not be reminded of Dream every time I see you,"

There's a tentative smile, "So...can I stay for a little while?"

George elbows him, "You can stay for a couple days, but not any more than that. Karl and Quackity will come looking for you and burn the whole place down,"

"Yeah." His smile becomes almost dazed, "They're the best,"

"Whipped bastard,"

_

They build a guest hut, but it's not really a guest hut. It's Sapnap's hut, and it's big enough for three.

Sapnap hears Ghostbur humming so they mine for the materials to make a jukebox and note blocks. Sapnap knocks George off a ledge. George threatens to hit him into lava. When they resurface Ghostbur is waiting for them; he says he knew they were coming because their laughter echoed up the stone.

They put the jukebox in Ghostbur's room and the note blocks under a pergola. They play with Friend while Ghostbur gets the blocks tuned, and cheer when he's able to play them a song.

When Sapnap leaves it's with a promise to return with a wedding date and as few new scars as possible. He also leaves with a scarf Ghostbur made from Friend's wool.

George is left smiling, feeling like he hasn't really been left at all.

_

They're sitting on the floor of Ghostbur's room making lanterns one night when Ghostbur says he has a disc. He pulls it out from beneath the floor boards and holds it like it's something holy. George doesn't recognize the colors, and when it starts to play he doesn't recognize the tune.

"What's that song?"

"It's Monk's,"

"It's Monk?"

"No, it's Monk's song. Thelonious Monk's. It's one of my favorites,"

The lone piano sounds melancholy and lemon-sweet, twisting between passion and disinterest like smoke.

"It's beautiful,"

Ghostbur's voice sounds reverent when he speaks, "It's old. Jazz, I think, though classifying something into a genre seems a little pointless with how decades and definitions shift. Art is subjective, and all,"

George hums. The jukebox puts the hint of echo and tremble on the chords. Or maybe it was recorded that way.

"It's interesting to me -- every artist puts a piece of themselves into their work. And even after they're long gone, that piece of them remains. This song, composed by Thelonious Monk will forever be his. And every person that plays it will strive to match his technique or find a way to improve upon it. As if they're trying to impress him or catch his attention, and he'll rise from the grave and give them a good word, a pat on the head, a gift for carrying on his song. But the song is what keeps that piece of him alive in the tomb. The piano player reaches for him through the keys. And the song, containing part of his soul, keeps him reaching back. Even this disc, this exact recording of Ruby, My Dear released in 1965 as a bonus track on the album Solo Monk will keep his hands, attacking each key as if they've never known what it is to touch gently, reaching back for as long as it plays,"

"An endless symphony," George offers.

Ghostbur smiles, "That's a kind way of saying unfinished,"

Ghostbur's hut has a small desk with a brewing stand on it. Potion ingredients hang in jars off of hooks on the ceiling, their completed brews lined up on a shelf. The bed is made neatly except for the corner that Friend has gnawed messy. It smells of fresh baked bread. It's cozy and strange. George thinks it suits Ghostbur very well.

He tries and fails to hold back a yawn.

"You should get some rest,"

"Probably." George stands and stretches, leaving his half-made lantern leaning against the wall. He pats Friend goodnight and makes for the door, "Goodnight, Ghostbur," 

"Goodnight George,"

When George falls into his own bed he wonders if his room suits him.

His desk is littered with wood carvings and drawings save for one clean spot with a single invitation holding a date and three signatures. There's a blue wool blanket thrown across the back of his chair. A handful of candles sit in the window sill, half used-up. Pinned to the wall there's a blurry photo of three friends smiling in front of a brick house.

George thinks he should get some plants, and falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the song, I listened to it a lot while writing this: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jymS_7zyy7c
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at surreal-static.
> 
> If you leave a comment I'll love you forever. 
> 
> You get bonus points if you figured out the parallel between Monk “haunting” them through his music and Wilbur/Ghostbur and L’Manberg.


End file.
